Time has certainly changed the former Robert Zimmerman since his first of 35 records (and counting) was released 50 years ago.

Dylan had gone from being a freewheelin’ folkie to an electrified Judas. He went country, crashed his motorcycle, played a cowboy and became a recluse. He found Jesus but scattered his flock. He found his inner-muse again but lost the lilt in his voice. And on his delicious depraved and dementedly dark, “Tempest,” he has lost all hope for survival.

Despite his voice being shot to hell, Dylan reeks of authority and might. In fact, there seems to be a lot of vibrancy and life in Dylan’s phlegmy vibrato (which will never be accused of being Auto-Tune and is probably illegal in several states), so much so that you are rooting that a clean, crisp vocal resemblance of his former self might momentarily break out of his damaged larynx and grab hold of the lyrics, which, of course, never does.

With a locomotive barreling down the tracks like an honorary member of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, Dylan braces himself for impact on the combination world-gone-wrong train song/day of reckoning ditty, “Duquesne Whistle.” Dylan, in the guise of a man at the end of his rope (which, from the sound of his shattered pipes, is probably not a big stretch), sees images of a lover from his past peeking through a picket fence flicker before his eyes while the Virgin Mary beckons him to join her on the other side. The song’s bluesy pedal steel guitar and rockabilly acoustic shuffle add to Dylan’s nostalgia, painful acknowledgement and the inevitable acceptance that the blood on the tracks is his own.

Dylan ponders about heartbreaking harlots and pretty, petty thieves that wouldn’t think twice about doing you in and dragging your corpse in the mud on the seedy underbelly of society soiree, “Soon After Midnight.” Looking for redemption in all the wrong speakeasies, Dylan, in serious scoundrel mode, muses, “My heart is cheerful/It’s never fearful/I’ve been down on the killing floors/I’m in no great hurry/I’m not afraid of your fury/I’ve faced stronger walls than yours.”

On the bluesy shuffle “Narrow Way,” Dylan is a low-rent Christ figure wandering in the desert to get his mind right. With the soul of a poet and the mind of a madman, Dylan’s inspired and intense, all-over-the-place (but always right on target) musings tackle everything from spiritual identity to our country’s messy state of affairs. And when the listener is trying to digest and dissect all he has said, Dylan gets frisky, uttering a series of sweet somethings, including “Put your arms around me, where they belong,” “Lay my hands over you, tie you to my side” and “I’m gonna have to take my head and bury it between your breasts.”

Dylan’s sly, conversational lyrics about emotional distance, life’s disappointment and burning desires come to play on the fully functional, dysfunctional relationship ditty, “Long and Wasted Year.” Alongside a descending guitar riff that wonderfully accents his down-trodden musings, a guttural, visceral Dylan hits us with a series of revealing four-line verses, some that are cruelly funny, morally twisted and poignantly touching. And he saves his best for his final revelation, “We cried on a cold and frosty morn/We cried because our souls were torn/So much for tears/So much for these long and wasted years.”

“Pay In Blood” is an unflinching, blood-soaked, morality play that Springsteen would have killed for to get his hands on it first. Here, Dylan is scary as hell, playing judge, jury and executioner on corrupt politicians, panhandlers and people who have fallen through the cracks (and don’t know who or where their daddy is at). Boasting that he has something in his pocket that would “make your eyeballs swim,” as well as dogs that “could tear you limb from limb,” Dylan mesmerizes us, as well as terrorizes us with the biting mantra, “I pay in blood, but not my own.” Whether you believe he’s a righteous man or just someone completely off his rocker, Dylan is riveting on this taunt and twisted rocker.

Something is rotten (in a good way) in the state of Dylan on the Shakespearean tragedy-inspired murder ballad, “Tin Angel.” Weaving a sordid tale that includes a shooting, a stabbing, a suicide and a little gratuitous skin, the song centers on a love triangle between “The Boss,” his lady (no not, Springsteen and Patti Scialfa) and a rival clan chief named Henry Lee. Spitting out a lethal combination of toxic phlegm and stinging bile, Dylan gives voice to these three flesh-out characters (four if you count omniscient narrator) whose fates are sealed and are doomed from the start.

Batten down the hatches, the title track, “Tempest,” is a nearly 14-minute-long, 45-verse, chorus-absent opus about the Titanic that sometimes plays out like a drunken DVD commentary on James Cameron’s celebrated blockbuster of the same name. How many artists past or present would have the audacity or sheer will to construct a long narrative poem about the most celebrated disaster of the 20th century? Finally having coughed up that elusive phlegm-crusted hairball that has been plaguing his windpipe for the duration of the album, Dylan’s often powerful and unorthodox retelling of the “unsinkable” luxury liner (which actually references Leonardo DiCaprio) not only captures the crew and passengers’ catastrophic and claustrophobic end, it — more importantly — examines how incredible circumstances bring out the best and worst in people.

Dylan goes from the most celebrated disaster of the 20th century to the single biggest loss in music history with the album’s closer “Roll On John.” A touching ode to John Lennon, who was slain 32 years ago this December, Dylan cuts and pastes references from Lennon’s pre-Fab Four days (including the Quarrymen, The Cavern, Liverpool and Hamburg), as well as quotes familiar lines from such Beatles classics as “A Day in the Life,” “The Ballad of John and Yoko” and “Come Together.”

If anyone understands what a great loss Lennon’s death is, it is Dylan. And Dylan is not trying to be too clever here. In fact, he’s a little cutesy and clumsy at times, but always honest, unfussy and heartfelt.

While a majority of his masterpieces were made prior to Lennon’s death, Dylan has still amassed a great body of work, which only makes you imagine (and gets you deeply saddened) over the great works Lennon had in store. And not only does it remind us how much we miss Lennon, it makes us eternally grateful that Dylan is alive and kicking, and kicking it old-school.